


call me home and I will build a throne

by AWickedMemory (ReadyPlayerZero)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Christmas Eve, Family Feels, Homeless Draco, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero/pseuds/AWickedMemory
Summary: Harry (and Hermione and Ron) work at a homeless shelter on Christmas Eve and find Draco Malfoy amongst the homeless.Happy holidays, vaysh!





	call me home and I will build a throne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/gifts).



> I tried to make it somewhat experimental, but I'm pretty sure I failed all over that. And Harry's a little young to be Minister of Magic, but let's just imagine that's the track he's on and it'll happen eventually. ;) Happy holidays, vaysh!

The first time I met you, I hated you.

I hated you, and in all the same ways I loved you. You hurt me, and in all the same ways you helped me. It was nothing personal, except in all the ways that it was.

It wasn’t in the words you said, but the look in your eyes and the tone of your voice when you said it. Papa’s right: your eyes are brilliant, but they betray you. Every emotion you think you hide is right there, bright there, burning and storming all at once. You were thunder and lightning, and papa would bear your Lichtenberg scars for life.

He already bore one, after all.

If it helps, if it matters, if you care, it wasn’t for anything you did to me. You didn’t even see me at first. But I hated your potential nonetheless.

I hated the way you looked at papa, and loved the fact that you saw him at all. I hated the way your words seared straight through him, but loved how that jolt of energy jump started his heart. He was dying in all the ways that mattered most, and you didn’t coax him back from the precipice, you slammed a pickaxe into the earth and crumbled the foundation beneath his feet.

It was only while turning away from the rope you offered that he caught sight of the sea of potential that stretched out below. For the first time in years, Draco Malfoy took a leap of faith.

So you see, I hated you for making him jump. But I loved you for forcing him to swim.

 

* * *

__  
i’ve got stuff inside but it’s not real  
i say i’m fine but i feel synthetic—nothing human left in me  
i’m just a machine full of moving parts  
i’ve got emptiness where i used to have a heart  


* * *

 

Alright, I lied. Maybe it was a little in the words you said.

“I thought I kept you out of prison. What _happened_?”

Dear Harry, I hated you then, but I love you now, so I can ask: what the fuck?

There are many things in this world that are evil from their very core and deserve to be shunned. Cold-blooded murderers. Rapists. Bigots. People who try to drown a box of kittens.

Things that are not evil and do not deserve to be shunned: doing something half of your soul screams not to do because the other half loves your family more than you love yourself. Suffering in stoic silence as society sends you to the streets like so much soiled goods. Surviving.

That cold winter night on Christmas Eve, you stared at papa from the opposite side of a table of fortune, and there was a novel in your eyes. The opening line read: _What did you do?_

That was the moment I fell in hate with you.

Why was it papa’s fault that he was on the streets? And even if it were, since when is being homeless a crime? And if it’s not, why do we treat the homeless like criminals?

Then again, you _are_ an Auror. Maybe in your eyes, everyone looks like a criminal. Guilty until proven innocent, at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

There are many reasons I love my papa, and not the least of them is this: he doesn’t back down. He may have lost everyone and everything else from his upbringing, but he never lost his pride. Only he goes about things more quietly now than what you remember from childhood.

“A war happened, Potter. You may have kept me from the guillotine, but that didn’t stop the spirit of revolt.”

“Did you just compare yourself to French aristocracy?” you asked. “Ugh. Of course you would.”

I looked at my papa then in his royal rags in the blistering cold, and I couldn’t understand the question. He was always a prince to me.

He was power, suppressed but present. He was a security blanket, cold hands around a warm heart. He was hunger for something more than this world had given him, or hunger for what it had taken away. He was life, and hope, and a future. If I could, I would give him the world and more.

But that isn’t my job. That’s yours.

To your credit, at least you had enough sense of shame to look reasonably guilty. Standing there, staring into the eyes of your once-peer, you don’t gloat at the role reversal: you, standing in a position of power, well-fed and well-dressed and triumph all around you; him, swimming in hand-me-down rags three sizes too big, too thin and too hungry and too starved for affection and respect. It would be so easy for you to be smug, be resentful, be vain—

— _(How the mighty fall!)_ —

—but you don’t. You aren’t. It’s not in you.

So I hate you. But not really.

“Look,” my papa said, “Potter. I’m cold and I’m hungry. Either feed me or fuck off. I’m not interested in playing catch-up with you.”

I don’t know what you expected from papa, but that wasn’t it. Regardless, it was enough to make you do what he wanted and pass over the plate.

That was when you finally caught sight of me nestled under papa’s coat, clinging to his waist. You looked surprised, then did what any parent hates most and reached out to me. “And who’s this?”

In my defense, I did try to swat your hand away. I did. You ignored it, though, as you ignored papa’s warning “Don't—”, as you’d ignore me so often afterward, as you ignore many things until it suits you to notice, to listen, to see. So I feel that it was entirely within my right to bite you.

You did not like that. Then again, you did not like many things then.

Papa thinks you lost your way for a while. I think you loved. You _loved_ so much, so hard, so broadly, so bravely, that in the end you had no energy left in you to simply _like_.

That’s how you felt about papa, after all.

 

When papa and I left, he thought that was the end. But I knew it was just the beginning.

* * *

__  
this evening’s too quiet oh we need a real riot  
to shake and to break and to bite like a snake  


* * *

 

I’m not one for religion, but I am one for magic, and there’s something magical about St. Mungo’s Cathedral at Christmastime. It was here, Harry, that you reunited with papa that night, and it was here that I united with him just one year before.

I was starving then. I was starving for something more than food, but I was starving for food as well. Born in the countryside and raised by my mother until she succumbed to illness, I was turned out onto the streets and somehow made my way to Glasgow.

Papa found me then, trying to steal scraps from a vendor outside and doing a piss-poor job of it. The vendor was ready to pitch me into the River Clyde, but papa intervened, paid the vendor in what few coins lined his pockets, and took me away.

He tried to set me down to enter the cathedral, and I’m perfectly proud to admit that I wouldn’t stop clinging to him. Though you may not have believed him capable of such a kindness, I knew a good man when I saw one. If not a good one, well, _the_ one; my shelter from the storm. The poor, pitiful child I was, skinny and sopping wet, he relented and allowed me along.

We stepped into the stone walls, papa bearing my shivering weight in his arms, and I felt so safe and warm. My belly was still empty, but my spirit finally felt full.

Papa carried me down into the crypt, ignorant to the transformation happening within me. Where most visitors to the crypt would proceed straight on toward St. Mungo’s resting place, however, papa peeled away toward a small, barred room off to the side of the chapels. With a furtive look around, he stepped through the bars of the seemingly empty room—

—and emerged into the wizarding section on the other side, in the Respite: a soup kitchen and emergency assistance shelter for displaced witches and wizards.

This is where papa’s and my story began, and it’s where the new chapter of your story would begin as well.

* * *

__  
we follow our own steps where the shadows keep watching us  
the wrong step would be not to start this exodus  


* * *

 

The next we saw you—as I knew we would—was at an old church in Devon, a nameless abandoned building in a nameless abandoned village.

“Why are you living here?” you asked.

“Why are you stalking me?” papa asked back.

“I went back to the shelter, but you were gone.”

Oh, Harry. I could have bitten you again for the accusation in your tone. At least you didn’t pretend that you weren’t doing exactly that: stalking him.

“The shelter’s not exactly my permanent address,” papa replied. “You may want to revisit the definition of ‘homeless’.”

“I’m trying to help you out here.”

“No, thanks.”

You aren’t used to being told no, are you? Or at least you’re not used to people committing to it. Then again, if I were on track to be the youngest Head Auror in history—and possibly Minister of Magic someday—I’m sure I’d be accustomed to others doing what I wanted as well.

Rather than cling to your surprise or irritation, you only looked more determined. “Don’t be an idiot, Malfoy. You can’t keep living somewhere like this forever.”

The old church in Devon embodied the idea of a willing spirit and weakened flesh. It retained a certain mystique from years of reverence that gave it a sense of pride and quiet power. Even in its dilapidated state, it remained full of life—at least, to those of us who could see.

Clearly you, dear Harry, for all your magical wisdom, weren’t quite wise enough.

I always thought it resembled my papa quite nicely. I miss it even now.

“Potter,” my papa began, speaking slowly so that you would understand. “This may be beyond your experiences, but sometimes, no means no. I’m well aware that my circumstances are not ideal, but this in no way implies that I would like your overbearing assistance on the matter.”

“Luna seems to disagree.”

You likely know this by now, Harry, but Auntie Luna wasn’t merely a witch who sometimes helped us out. She brought us here, showed us the old church in Devon, helped make it our home. Auntie Luna often sees what others do not.

Papa knows this. He doesn’t, however, always appreciate it.

“Of course that’s how you found me,” he sighed. “Regardless, I’m not interested. Take your Saviour Complex and kindly piss off.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” you asked, frustrated. “No, let me guess: your pride’s all you have left. You’ll find your own way. It’s not me, it’s you; nothing personal?”

“Oh, no, Potter.” Papa still sneered a perfect sneer. It still made you want to punch him. Punch him and protect him—you’re never a simple man, are you? “It’s entirely personal. I already owe you too much. I refuse to owe you more.”

“That’s such a load of—”

Here I apologise. I didn’t mean to tackle you as hard as I did. I startled you quite a bit (although you startled us first), but I wasn’t concerned with minding my manners when (you weren’t minding yours) I could tell that papa was upset.

At least you find it funny now, if the way you tell the tale to others is any indication.

You—the Boy Who Lived Twice, the vanquisher of pure evil, the saviour of us all—you yelped as you fell, hitting a pew as you went down, me still attached to you. You dragged me off and scrambled away, flustered, flush, maybe a little furious. I was entirely ready to go again and fight you until you left us alone when a most wonderful sound cut through the cold, still air.

Papa’s laughter.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t realise until that very moment that I’d never heard papa laugh. He was always too cold, too tired, too hungry, too proud—as I was always too cold, too tired, too hungry, too proud. But I heard him laugh then, and I knew I was not too proud to do whatever it took to hear it happen again.

Evidently, Harry, you felt the same way. Sprawled between the seats and stone, you stared, stunned, still.

Some of that may have had to do with the concussion I gave you, but nonetheless.

Silent night, holy night.

You left shortly after, and papa thought that meant he'd won. Resigned—wrong, of course—maybe a little regretful, he was.

I knew you'd be back. I couldn't have imagined how, but I knew.

* * *

__  
wake up and face me don’t play dead ‘cause maybe  
someday i will walk away and say you disappoint me  


* * *

 

Papa and I didn't often go to London. He generally avoided England altogether, preferring to keep to Scotland those days. Perhaps it was nostalgia for his school days; perhaps it was the cheer of the people; perhaps it was the beauty of the landscape. Either way, he rarely had cause to leave central Scotland anymore, much less venture to England.

To this day, neither of us remember was drew us there. A missed engagement? A long forgotten errand? Or as I prefer to think of it—a simple call of destiny. Destiny brought me to papa, after all; destiny brought you back together.

Regardless why, we were in London that day, seated along the Regent’s Canal, eating bits of stale bread given to us by a nearby bakery. It was a beautiful day for a picnic, and a beautiful day for a Potter to come drifting down the river, unconscious.

I can’t say that papa didn’t consider letting you drown. I can’t say he did, either, but, well. I know my papa. I could interpret his frozen tension as he laid eyes on you, recognising you straight away, face down and all.

But he was my shelter from the storm, after all. I would not have picked him if I hadn’t seen the capacity for kindness within him.

He reached out.

 

The week that followed your watery retrieval was a very long, very miserable one. I realised then why papa hesitated before pulling you from the water. As you spent your days in hospital, I spent mine locked in a holding cell with the bare essentials while papa was locked in a separate cell with _his_ bare essentials… I’d hope.

Then again, after the week we’d had, I wouldn’t have put it past your colleagues not to bother.

Harry, I hate to inform you this, but your colleagues are not very nice. Not to papa, anyway. They were actually quite kind to me, but it was a cruel kindness. They’d taken him away, after all. I couldn’t have cared less what they brought me or how they tried to coddle me when my papa was being treated like a criminal, questioned for his potential involvement in your near-murder.

Then again, I don’t need to tell you that, do I? You read them the Riot Act once you woke up from your coma, all on your own. And good riddance! No matter what their personal histories with the Malfoy family are, that was no excuse for taking an innocent man captive and interrogating him just because he was the one to bring your unconscious body to the hospital.

(What sort of would-be murderer rescues his own victims anyway?)

At least some good came out of the entire awful ordeal. Apparating papa and me home after a nice, hot meal that all three of us desperately needed, you told papa in no uncertain terms that nobody owed anyone anything anymore.

Papa’s debt to you was paid.

Not that papa agreed. You are not a simple man, and he is not an easy one. I suppose that’s how you work so well together now.

“We’re not square,” papa insisted. “That only cancels out the life debt. I have years to make up for.”

“Well then,” you said. “Stop being a tit and start making up for them.”

* * *

__  
there'll be no value in the strength of walls that I have grown  
there'll be no comfort in the shade of the shadows thrown  
you may not trust the promises of the change I'll show  


* * *

 

I don’t pretend to understand, but Harry, something changed that night we all left the hospital.

A restless flame had been lit inside papa, one I hadn’t even realised he’d been stoking all these years on the streets. We returned to the church once your help was refused once more, but instead of settling down to rest, papa paced. He thought. He muttered to himself. He thought some more.

And he paced.

After that, things changed, though not at once.

Papa began accepting Auntie Luna’s invitations more, both those to come visit and to engage with the world. She taught him to cook, and he began helping at Respite instead of only being at the other end. He began helping to sort donations. He began bookkeeping for the Quibbler.

Then he began _editing_ for the Quibbler so Auntie Luna could focus more of her time on researching and writing articles rather than fixing other people’s. The Quibbler was doing quite well these days, and Auntie Luna had taken quite a fancy to a young man named Rolf, so she needed an extra pair of hands on deck.

At this point, I realised that we weren’t going hungry anymore. Papa was stopping by stalls on our way home to purchase food regularly, with actual money. Respite was volunteer-run, so Auntie Luna must have been paying for his help. It hit me then, one night papa bought me a warm jumper to fend off the chill at night: this was his way of doing as you’d demanded.

He couldn’t accept being rescued by you, but he could damn well rescue himself.

That was my papa.

You still came around, of course. _Oh_ , you came around. Making sure we were alive, you said. Making sure the Aurors weren’t bothering us, you said. Making sure papa was taking proper good care of me, you said.

Somewhere along the way, they began to feel less like reasons and more like excuses. I think you just liked watching papa’s progress. I think you liked irritating him.

(And you know what, Harry? I think he liked frustrating you.)

“This isn’t really atonement, you know,” you’d tell him, needling at him. “For being a prat to the general public, yes, but it’s hardly making it up to me.”

“You’re one person, Potter,” papa would drawl. “You can wait your turn.”

But you liked that he was coming alive again. You liked that he was softening. It meant you could get under his skin again, just the way you always liked.

“For someone who thinks he owes me, you’re not very grateful,” you’d point out.

“And you said we’re square,” papa would remind. “Make up your mind.”

The relationship between you and me changed, too. While I was still a long ways off from liking you, and you were still wary of me, we at least began to talk.

You would call me your little queen, both because I ruled papa’s world and because he’d named me Cassiopeia when he adopted me. You called me Cassie. You called me a brat.

You would call papa your pain in the arse, for fairly obvious reasons. You called him Draco. You called him a prat.

Papa still didn’t laugh again, not like he had that night. There were a few quiet chuckles here and there as you’d storm in, robes swirling, all fussed with whatever political drama had upset you that day, but he was yet to let go the way we both wanted him to.

But he would.

* * *

_  
well my heart is gold and my hands are cold  
_

* * *

 

It was fitting that the day things changed for good, it was New Year’s Eve rather than Christmas. A year after you and papa were reunited, a time of new beginnings.

This time, I am very embarrassed—please, proud, satisfied, but embarrassed—to admit that it was entirely was my fault.

The moment you arrived at our little church in Devon, papa grabbed onto you in a state of panic. He’d been worrying for hours, but now he was on the verge of Apparating to St. Mungo’s to demand help.

“Something’s wrong with Cassie!”

To your credit, you didn’t waste any time. Rushing over to me, you inspected me, lying prone and dazed and confused. “Hey, little queen, hi,” you murmured as you checked my eyes, checked my temperature, checked for injuries. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Hi,” I whimpered back, but that was it. Even that exhausted me.

“She’s been pacing for days and refusing to eat. I thought she just had an upset stomach, but now I’m worried she has a parasite of some sort,” papa explained frantically. “A few hours ago, she suddenly dropped. She’s been curled up like that ever since. I don’t know where to take her!” 

“Her temperature’s up,” you noticed. “Come on, hang on. I’m going to Side-Along you both. Hurry!”

For once, papa didn’t argue. I’ve always known that he would fight for me, but this was the first time I realised he would cease fighting for me as well. I’d long suspected he loved me more than his pride, but even in my weakened state, it was heartwarming to learn it for sure.

I don’t know how long the healer worked on me. I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. And then… well.

_Well._

Eventually, you and Papa were called back in. “Congratulations,” the healer said with a smile. “You’re grandparents now.”

In that moment, one could have heard a Lethifold glide into the room.

“What.”

“What?!”

The healer presented me then, flustered and embarrassed. I smiled weakly. “Er… oops?”

If it weren’t for my absolute certainty that papa loved me above all else, I would have been terribly afraid right then that I was about to be alone again. He stared with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

“All four kittens are very happy and healthy. Congratulations!”

“Kittens,” papa echoed weakly. “ _Kittens_. You— _Cassiopeia_!”

I ducked my head and mewled.

Most nights, I stay in with papa, keeping him company, keeping each other warm. Bu some nights I’d go on the prowl to hunt and make sure our area is safe. One night, a few months ago, a most handsome, flirtatious tom was passing through town, and, well.

A girl’s got needs, you know?

It was you, dear Harry, who broke the silence. A snort of disbelief was followed by a full on belly laugh. If looks could kill, papa would’ve been arrested all over again, but you ignored him. “Kittens. All that fuss because you didn’t know she was having kittens!”

“Not quite,” the healer interrupted. “It’s very good that you brought her in. It seems that Cassie was experiencing uterine inertia. Likely her contractions couldn’t get going the way they were supposed to, not enough to deliver, so she became fatigued. The first fetus wasn’t quite in the right position, either, which wouldn’t have helped even if her contractions were perfect. But we were able to help her get going again once she’d had some rest, and nature took its course. She’s been a very good mother so far.”

Well, of _course_ I was an excellent parent. I’d learned from the best, after all.

A scheming look entered your eyes, and I swear I knew what you were going to suggest even before the words came out of your mouth. Perking up, I looked at papa hopefully.

“You can’t raise them in that church. They’ll die of hypothermia before the season’s out.”

“It’s the closest thing I’ve got to a home, you ninny. What, you think I’m going to turn my cat and her babies over to you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you reassured. “She’s your daughter. They’re your grandkittens. I was thinking more that—well. You’re working now. You’ll need help with them.”

“I will not!”

“And I really do have more space than one man needs all to himself.”

“I don’t—wait.” Papa squinted at you. “All this time, this past year, you were… what?”

“Not _all_ year,” you protested defensively. “Or, well. Maybe the whole year. I don’t know, I hadn’t worked out the details when I was first trying to help. Have you stay a few nights while searching for housing assistance you’d qualify for, maybe. I don’t know. But the last few months, since you started gaining your confidence back…” He shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe.”

“You—!”

“Think of Cassie. Think of the kittens. They’ll be warm and safe at my place,” you urged. “Or, you know. You could be selfish for once. _You_ could be warm and safe at my place.”

“It really would be better for the kittens to be sheltered,” the healer pitched in, reminding us all that this domestic was somewhat public. “It’s supposed to be a particularly harsh winter this year.”

“If you’re so worried about tipping the scales away again, just help out around the house,” you suggested. “Merlin knows I’ve let chores fall by the wayside, being at work or your place all the time.”

“I refuse to be your little housewife, Potter!”

“Perish the thought,” you wisely agreed. “Although you’d look cute in the apron.”

“ _Potter_...”

“Only you’ve gotten quite good in the kitchen these days.” 

“I despise you so much right now.” Papa glared.

You smiled. You knew you’d won.

I smiled. I knew we’d _all_ won.

* * *

__  
i build bridges with these arms  
i will not build a fortress  


* * *


End file.
